What Love Looks Like
by StalkerPedoMario98
Summary: (Season 2) When Sam is stabbed in the back by Jake, Dean is left to pick up the thoroughly shattered pieces. The time between when Sam is stabbed and when Bobby returns with food (where the episode picks up).


Dean felt as if he were stuck in some sort of black hole, his eyes swimming as the scent of blood and sweat stung his nostrils and clawed at his throat. His whole world was frozen in time and slowly shattering into fine pieces that he had an awful feeling he'd never be able to totally reclaim. His sobs were being swallowed by the heavy beat of rain which seemed to pelt him the longer his knees were ground into the thick skin of its mother earth.

He could feel no use of moving though – maybe Sam would choke out a laugh and push away from Dean, and everything would be alright. Maybe it was all really just a sick joke and the life that seeped from the deep incision on Sam's back was really just a small flesh wound that Bobby could slap a Hello Kitty band-aid on after a dab of Neosporin and they'd ride to hunt another day, looking back and laughing at the whole bit. But it was never that simple.

Dean wasn't sure how long he held Sam's chilling, lifeless body to his chest, as if he could jump-start his brother's soul with his own, but he knew he couldn't let him go – not so soon, at least. An hour must've gone by before he felt a warm, gentle hand on his shoulder, causing him to instinctively grip his brother even harder.

"Dean, we…we can't just sit out here. I lost the kid – ran outta sight 'sfar as I can tell. I'm…I'm sorry." Bobby tried comforting him, but Dean was rigid like a rock, his grip tight on Sam. He slowly shook his head in disagreement, but found himself quietly retracting. He pulled back and watched as rain droplets careened down his little brother's slack face, the heavens – though Dean was very sure none existed now – weeping sorrowfully on them. He gently smoothed back a few hairs from Sam's forehead, his vision blurred and his mind starting to whir with post trauma.

Mud coated his jeans from the knees down, his boots sopping wet and heavy when he finally moved to stand up. Bobby helped him lay Sam on his side, then grabbed under Sam's knees while Dean hooked his arms under Sam's armpits. Dean couldn't stop himself from glancing down at his brother every so often as they moved cautiously down the vacant street and through the miles of forest, still having instinctual shots of denial and hope, though he knew there was no going back.

Thinking of what could've happened, what he could've done to prevent this, was eating him up inside. If they'd ran through the forest instead of steadily making their way, or had warned Sam earlier somehow when Jake had stalked up behind him. Maybe if Dean had had his gun cocked and ready he could've gotten the drop on Jake and Sam would still be topside. Dean loathed not only Jake, but himself.

It wasn't just his 'job' to keep Sam safe, it was his _life_. Ever since they'd gotten back into the swing of things they counted on one another keep each other safe and well and _breathing._ Although even before then Sam was Dean's life – perhaps not 100% of the time, but damn was that kid important to him. Even when Sam went off to college, abandoning Dean and their Father, a part of him had to issue himself a restraining order. Despite how much of a little shit his brother could be, he would always love him.

The night was unforgivably cold, and Dean could feel his fingers beginning to go numb as he bunched them into fists while helping carry Sam's lifeless body. Sometimes Dean would look past Bobby and swear he saw blood on the ground from where they'd just walked. He was sure months had gone by by the time they reached the Impala, her sleek, black frame glinting in the sunrise which pinked the dark sky. The storm had moved eastward away from them, and though it had left a few stray clouds, the sky was nearly clear and disgustingly serene. Dean hated it. The world didn't deserve a pretty sunrise or day for what had happened to his only flesh and blood just that night.

Bobby opened the driver side passenger door, easing Sam's feet in and helping Dean slide him in and situate him as carefully as they could. Not that it mattered to Sam, but it mattered a whole hell of a lot to Dean – and Bobby. Sam always deserved better. They all did.

Dean remained silent as Bobby drove them to a nearby shack to hold up in. He knew Dean needed time before the inevitable hunter's funeral was bestowed for his brother, and definitely didn't want to rush him. Dean was strong, but he was sensitive and distant as well. There was no telling what would set him off on some quest to wrongly try to fix things. It seemed to be the infamous Winchester way.

Once they arrived Dean was slow getting out, a pensive, foreboding expression darkening his more or less delicate features. Bobby opened his door for him, the familiar creaking sound waking him from his stupor and pushing him clumsily from his seat. The world was nearly light and was singing louder than it should've been considering the circumstances. Dean despised it.

He moved to the other side of the car and yanked the door open, his expression softening exponentially at the sight of his brother, hunched awkwardly against the seat, turned in as if he were simply taking a nap in the back after a long and exhausting hunt. Dean almost smiled but caught himself when he caught sight of the wound which had incidentally seeped out all over the door and the seat. Biting hard on his tongue, he ignored the blood and gently pushed his arms under Sam's armpits once more, dragging his heavy body from the back seat and nearly standing him up before Bobby grabbed ahold of his legs again.

Dean kept expecting to look down and catch Sam's eyes fluttering open, a look of confusion and raw humor dawning over him and causing Dean to smirk and act like he was going to drop him – he never would though, that was far too cruel – and they'd laugh about it after Sam cussed him out for a minute or two. As he looked down at his brother though, he knew by the pale color of his cheeks and the awful weight of his limp body that nothing of the sort would be happening – ever again. Dean felt tears welling up and tried to desperately swallow them down, tired of crying, tired of feeling lost and lonely, tired of life and all its absolute bullshit he could never get a break from. _He was so damn tired of it all_.

Once inside the old, abandoned house, they laid Sam out stomach down on a bare mattress, his wound a large, perforating eye sore that Dean felt sick to look at. Bobby raised a brow at Dean, unsure why he'd had them lay his brother that way, but followed his line of vision and couldn't stop himself from further frowning.

"Dean…you know sewin' him up isn't going to help anyth-"  
"We can't just leave him busted open like a piñata, Bobby! Just…please? If you won't do it then I will." Dean interjected, his voice cold as ice and shaking with troubled certainty that had his voice shaking and Bobby looking at him funny. Dean cast his eyes from Bobby to Sam, allowing them to scan Sam's slack features, so calm and almost pure. He wasn't sure where the word 'pure' came from in his mind, especially to describe Sam considering all that he'd been through and what was inside of him, but in an odd way the word seemed to fit. He supposed if Sam was anything, he was pure at heart – despite everyone and thing that got at him. Dean would always love him for that which he was on the inside – not physically, really, but mentally and wholeheartedly.

It took Bobby 30 minutes or so to patch Sam up, and they flipped him on his back once the deed was done. The returned sight of his baby brother's pale, dead face made Dean's stomach squirm and his head throb, disgusted with what he was faced with and the fact the he had to deal with it in real time. Sam and he should be off gathering information on Jake and Yellow eyes and drinking a few cold ones and laughing about how screwed the world was and how it always seemed to fall into their laps to be fixed.

And there it was again, that snide voice inside his head muttering " _Shoulda woulda coulda_ ", hammering away at his temples and sending unnecessary hunger pains through his abdomen. He hadn't eaten since Sam had gone missing which had to have been two days or so ago. Not that it mattered to Dean – to hell with his hunger. How could he ever find the will to eat again? His entire family was dead, and for what? Some bullshit master plan that took everyone he loved from him? He couldn't take it.

He felt a hand grip his shoulder and found Bobby giving him the sorriest expression, and had to turn away from it. He didn't want to be consoled and trialed and philosophized and whatever else people do when someone lost everything they ever knew.

Bobby didn't say a word, though, and simply slipped his hand away and walked from the house to leave Dean to his thoughts. He knew he'd need time alone with his brother – hopefully to come to terms with what had happened, gather himself together and use his rage to help bring down whatever was bound to erupt at any time.

He needed Dean.

The world needed Dean.

But for now, Sam needed Dean, and Dean needed Sam.

That was how it'd always been, and despite all that had happened, that was how it always would be.

At least if Dean had anything to say about it.


End file.
